He pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb brushing a piece of hair behind my ear. He grins. Nervous, honest, unguarded.
“I just said I don’t usually do relationships,” he says. “So I’m not going to lie and pretend I know how to do this perfectly. But I want more with you. More than just nights in my bed. More than something casual.”
My breath catches. “You want a relationship?”
He shrugs, vulnerability written all over his face. “If that’s the label you want to put on it, yeah. I want a relationship with you. I want to make you as happy as you make me.”
“We’ve only slept together once,” I point out, not accusing, just trying to keep my feet on the ground.
“Damn, Doc,” he says, lips twitching. “Didn’t take you for the kind that measures a relationship by sex.”
I blush despite myself, a laugh threatening. “You know what I mean. We only know the bare minimum about each other.”
“Then we fix that,” he says easily.
He takes my hand and pulls me toward the couch, sitting beside me instead of looming, his body turned fully toward mine.
“Well,” he says, settling in, eyes locked on mine, “Amelia Bronwyn, tell me about yourself.”
I sit there for a second after he says it.Tell me about yourself.It feels like the room tilts.
Not because it’s a big question.
Because no one ever really asks me that without wanting something useful in return.
I draw a slow breath, still aware of his hand wrapped around mine, steady and warm.
“What do you want to know?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t hesitate. “What makes you feel safe?”
That hits harder than anything else he’s said tonight.
I look down at our joined hands, my thumb tracing the line of his knuckles. “Consistency,” I admit. “People who show up when they say they will. People who don’t disappear when things get complicated.”
He nods like he’s filing it away. Like it matters.
“And what scares you?” he asks.
I let out a small laugh, more breath than sound. “Letting people close enough to hurt me. Trusting someone who lives in a world where I could be collateral damage.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I grew up watching my brother give everything to baseball,” I continue. “And I loved it for him. I still do. But I also saw how easy it is for the game to take more than it gives. I promised myself I’d never lose myself inside someone else’s orbit.”
His grip on my hand is firm, not possessive, just present.
“I don’t want to be another chapter in someone’s highlight reel,” I say softly. “I want to matter.”
“You do,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No swagger.
I look up at him, really look at him.
“And you?” I ask. “What do you want?”
He leans back slightly, considering. “Peace,” he says after a moment. “Something that feels real when everything else feels like noise. Someone who sees me when the lights are off.”
His eyes meet mine, unguarded.
